


Cracked Glass

by Torched22



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Mirror Sex, Self-Reflection, maybe voyeurism? it's debatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:02:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28901592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Malcolm returns home from work and discovers something new in his apartment. Lonely and sex-starved, he finds himself in a rather...interesting...position with his new gift and too distracted to figure out who it's from.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Cracked Glass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoneyMayBee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoneyMayBee/gifts).



Malcolm’s body dragged with a weariness usually reserved for the elderly, embattled or ill. His head ached with a ferocity that started behind his eyes and wrapped around his head like a tightening vice. Rubbing at his temples, he unlocked his front door and trudged inside.

His loft unfurled before him and the emptiness that greeted him made something ache behind his stomach. He took off his jacket and draped it over the first available surface he could find before loosening his tie.

Thank god for Sunshine.

He looked towards her cage with a sad smile and walked towards her. She chirped a cheerful greeting and he opened the little metal door.  
Sunshine sprang right onto his finger and he began making conversation with her. She tilted her lemon drop yellow head and observed him with blinking black eyes. Every once in a while, she would tweet a response to his question and he smiled.

She hopped up his arm and sat on his shoulder as he walked over to the sizable refrigerator. He couldn’t remember what was inside, but knew that it would be mostly barren. Hopefully there’d be a Jell-O or a yogurt or something. He pulled at the handle.

Malcolm’s stomach ached and growled at him. He had to appease it before it grew its own teeth and swallowed him from the inside out. He leaned into the artificial light, feeling the cool refrigerated air sweep over his face. Sunshine stared inside as well. Neither of them saw many options.

Luckily, there was a yogurt cup inside. He reached for it and shut the door. “Would you like dinner too?” he asked his feathered friend. He pulled a spoon out of a nearby drawer and opened a cabinet to get her foot out. She bounced around in place and he grinned. As he consumed his meager meal, rather than focusing on the slide of the frigid, strawberry flavored semi-solid slinking down his throat, he tried to pay attention to Sunshine and what he was doing for her.

He filled her empty little palette with birdseed and watched as she gleefully hopped back down his arm towards her food. Begrudgingly, he finished the remainder of his yogurt with a grimace plastered to his face. Before he even let air glide past his nostrils, he grabbed a water and swallowed several gulps so that he wouldn't have to taste his makeshift dinner lingering on his tongue.

Pulling open a drawer, he grabbed some Advil and popped a few into his mouth. This headache needed to go away. As did the tension pulling his shoulders taut and the stiffness in his spine. He was far too young to be feeling quite this old.

As Malcolm walked towards his bedroom, he stretched his arms and a yawn rose up from his chest, past his throat and out his mouth stretched in a wide ‘o.’ In the silence he could hear the pop and crack of his joints.

Any normal person would simply flop into bed after a day like this, but he and sleep had never been on good terms.

Despite having his hunger temporarily sated, there was another ache that rolled in him. He resented it, tried to ignore it, hated it. Why did his body want sex at all? Why couldn’t he just flip a switch and turn that desire off?

He couldn’t imagine doing...anything...with anybody...not after what happened to Eve.

One morning about a week ago, he’d woken up hard. Rather than ignore it, he took himself in hand and tried to go through the motions thinking that maybe, if he got it out of his system, he wouldn’t be plagued by sexual dreams or inconvenient hard-ons.

Rather than comply, his mind went rogue, conjuring up Eve’s hallucination.

At first, it startled him. And then it enraged him. He begged her to go away and once he had finished yelling at, what he knew was really just an empty corner of his bedroom, his erection had wilted.

He hadn’t been able to masturbate, not even once, since she’d been killed.

Maybe it was the guilt.

You don’t deserve a reprieve Malcolm, not even for ten minutes, or five, or two. It’s because of your father - and because of you - that she’s dead. How dare you make any attempt at normalcy? How dare you touch yourself?

He wanted to scream. He did scream.

Malcolm stopped stretching the second he caught sight of another human form out the corner of his eye. He jumped back like a skittish cat, hands flying up as he prepared to fight or formulate a plan of action.

His heart rattled in his chest, but he slowed his breathing as he came to understand what he was looking at. His eyebrows slid together in confusion. It was himself.

There was a mirror in his bedroom. A mirror that most certainly had not been there before. Taking steadying breaths, he moved across his room with deliberate steps, now painfully aware of every move he took. Someone had been in his place without his knowledge.

He reached the standing mirror and brought his fingers to its frame where a little white note was tucked in against the wood. He yanked it out and unfolded it. “A gift for you. You never fail to look great, just remember, a little self-care is always a good thing.”

Malcolm spent several silent moments staring at the note. He couldn’t decipher who’s handwriting it was. The letters were drawn, not scripted. They wouldn’t match *anyone’s* handwriting. And of course, it was unsigned.

He set the note down on his dresser and then went back to his newest piece of furniture.

Who would give him a mirror? Did he have a stalker? He pulled out his phone and checked his messages, then his emails. Nothing unusual there. He pocketed his cell and began really examining the mirror, running his fingers over the carved design.

It was expertly crafted. Expensive. He was no wood expert, but it seemed like it was mahogany.

On his own, he never would have picked this mirror out on the basis that it might be a touch too ornate. However, it was old enough that it fit in with the historical industrial style of his loft. It had a weathered beauty that couldn’t be overlooked.

Well...the frame of the mirror was old.

The mirror itself...was brand new. It even had a protective film over the reflective surface. He caught sight of it at the top left corner, the lip of plastic folded over just at the edge. He reached for it and began to pull it downward.

It peeled away from the mirror easily with a satisfying sound and he let it fall to the floor in a staticky heap.

Why would the frame be old but the mirror be new? Who the hell gave it to him? He rubbed at his pulsing temples and stared at it, realizing that he was staring at himself.

His head hurt too much to launch an investigation at the present moment and that tug of arousal was still pulling at him. He dragged his eyes over his own body.

He had a stray lock of hair falling in his face that he pushed back into place. His tie was loose around his neck and his dress shirt was slightly wrinkled. He looked even more exhausted than he felt. The bags beneath his eyes were prominent. Shadows lived in the hollows of his cheeks. His room sat behind him, unaffected.

He caught the edge of his bed in the reflection and felt dread shimmer through him at the thought of another night spent rolling in the deafening silence. His hand began to shake. Rather than ball it into a fist, he brought it to the mirror, putting his fingers against the cool surface and pressing forward until his palm was flat.

So tired. Malcolm was so damn tired. Tired and starving. But not in any way that sleep or sustenance could cure.

Feeling utterly depleted, he rested his forehead against the mirror and sighed, watching as his breath fogged the glass. The push and pull of his breath making the fog expand then recede.

He wished that he wasn’t so alone. He wished that strong arms would wrap around him and breath would tickle his ear. He rocked forward, clothed arousal bumping against the solid surface. He shifted his head, looking down, and wondered how the mirror would feel against his naked cock.

At the thought, he groaned. It echoed back to him quickly at such a short distance. He slid his tie the rest of the way off and began unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly, he dragged it off his shoulders and let it puddle on the floor.

It was stark white against the brown hardwood at his feet. He kicked the fabric away and toed off his shoes, then his socks.

Shirtless, he let his eyes openly examine his own chest. He moved forward, planting his nose against the mirror and shutting his eyes. The cold felt so good against his aching head, he wondered how it would feel on his lips.

Pushing away any shame or guilt that was trying to swim to the surface, Malcolm pressed his lips to the mirror. He let them stay there for a moment, motionless, before deciding to move. He kissed the mirror, mouth rolling against it. Growing bolder, he let his tongue dart out to the vertical surface at the same time he opened his eyes.

His bright blue irises stared back at him beneath long lashes. He moaned, the sound reverberating off the mirror and vibrating back against his tongue. The mirror tasted sharp and cold. He licked it and a metallic flavor rose and then lingered on the tip of his taste buds.

He moved his hips forward and accidentally brushed his left nipple against the mirror in the process, which made him pull in a shocked breath. The cold of the mirror instantly pebbled his nipple and arousal rocked through him. He pulled his hard nipple away and tweaked it, played with it, all the while watching in the mirror. He repeated his actions with his other nipple. Then he pressed his chest fully against the surface, continuing the assault on the solidity in front of him with his mouth.

He smeared kisses through his own fogged breath before resting his forehead on the mirror and staring down. He hastily undid his belt and reached for his fly, stopping entirely mid rush to stare at his face. Malcolm didn’t want to race through this, he wanted to savor it.

“You look exhausted,” he offered to himself. His right hand was still grasping his waistband, but his left hand moved to the reflection of his hair, fingers falling flat on the glass. He wanted to penetrate the two dimensional surface, dip his hands past the solid barrier to reach inside the reversed world that reflected his own and drag himself out of it.

He took his hand back to run it through his hair and then finished undoing his pants. He slid down his slacks and heard the belt buckle clack against the floor. Hungrily, he lapped up the sight of himself in nothing but his tented boxer briefs. He watched his chest rise and fall rapidly. He noted the chest hair that seemed to congregate around his pert pink nipples. He followed the curving dips of his abdominal muscles and watched his cock strain against the fabric of his black underwear.

He was biting his lip in anticipation. No longer able to wait, he pulled off his underwear and his cock bounced free. It was angry and red and leaking. He immediately brought it to the mirror and smeared the precum against it. That same shivering cold rippled up his cock and rattled in his spine. It felt so fucking good to smear his cock head against it.

Malcolm moved forward until his cock was pulsing between him and the coldness. He slid against the mirror, the underside of his cock now fully trapped between his two selves. His fingers wrapped around the ornate frame as he began rutting in earnest. “Perfect, you’re perfect,” he muttered to himself between kisses. The sound of his skin sliding against the mirror filled his ears. Luckily, he had produced enough precum to mostly slide without his flesh catching in a squeal and skidding with too much friction.

He was getting close to the edge, his movements suffering as he gripped the mirror with fingers white from the strain. His moans and curses rang around him, bouncing off the surface that held his face.

“Need you. Want you. You’re wanted. Loved,” he crushed his cock against the glass. He stared into his own eyes. It felt like looking into the water of his soul and seeing an inside out version of himself rippling on the surface. “I love you.”

A whine writhed from Malcolm's lips as his orgasm approached, tingling in his spine, rattling in his legs, pulling at his balls. He stared down at his cock and its intangible twin, as come began coursing out of him and splattering against the mirror. He slammed his forehead against the mirror too hard and watched little slivers of silver fall to the floor.

He couldn’t stop coming though, he would have to mourn it later. And he would.

Malcolm shivered as he gave everything he had to the mirror - to himself. He trembled and began a downward descent after emptying himself. The shards of glass beneath him crunched. They sank their shining teeth into the thin flesh of his bony knees and hot liquid cried from every cut. But it didn't matter. ‘Let the pain come,’ he thought. He welcomed it, leaning forward to observe how he’d painted the mirror.

He pulled steadying breaths into his wildly heaving chest and drew close to his own come, caught on the surface of the mirror, clinging to that barrier he wished he could breach. He extended his tongue fully and flatly licked at his efforts, gathering it up before pulling it into his mouth so that the salty metallic tang could explode in his mouth.

Opening his eyes he saw his face, cheeks flushed pink, hair all out of place, sweat rolling down his skin. The spot where he’d swiped his tongue over the icy surface was smeared and it obscured the reflection of his right cheekbone.

Eventually, shakily, he got to his feet, paying no attention to the little red rivers that wound around his lower legs. He stared at the damage he’d done and let out a singular, “fuck.”

He would have to get the mirror fixed. It shouldn’t be a problem, it was only the mirror that was damaged, not the intricately carved woodwork. Still, he felt horrible that he’d managed to break this gift.

Raising a shaky hand, he traced the spot where shards of mirror were missing and his head tilted with wonder. He followed one of the slices, noting that it did not follow in the direction it ought to. He knew enough about physics to know how the glass should have fractured and fallen away.

He traced it with a finger and let his nail catch in the tiny crevice of the unusually stray slice. He pulled at it, making another piece of the mirror fall away. It came apart too easily.

Malcolm sucked in a shocked gasp as his eyes fell upon a black disc with a little green blinking light.

The mirror was bugged.

At first, panic roared to life in his chest, rattling his already hummingbird heartbeat.

He moved away from the gift, managing to avoid getting any glass embedded in his feet, and tried his latest calming technique. 

He stopped moving blindly backwards when the back of his thighs bumped into his bed. He plopped down mindlessly on the duvet, still stark naked, and stared at the mirror. 

He ought to be scared, to feel violated. But all he felt was a little less alone.


End file.
